


when you know you were born to fly

by justbreathe80



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-15
Updated: 2009-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-04 11:03:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbreathe80/pseuds/justbreathe80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ladies and gentleman, welcome aboard Atlantis Air flight number 1641. This is Captain Sheppard on the flight deck. I'll be flying you to San Francisco today, with First Officer Dex on my right. Approximate flight time this afternoon is six hours and thirty four minutes. The weather in the Bay Area is partly cloudy with some fog, and fifty four degrees. We're expecting a smooth flight, so sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight to San Francisco."</p>
            </blockquote>





	when you know you were born to fly

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my two fabulous betas, who know who they are, and who talked me down off the ledge. I confess to a knowledge of being an airline pilot that is limited to internet research.

"Ladies and gentleman, welcome aboard Atlantis Air flight number 1641. This is Captain Sheppard on the flight deck. I'll be flying you to San Francisco today, with First Officer Dex on my right. Approximate flight time this afternoon is six hours and thirty four minutes. The weather in the Bay Area is partly cloudy with some fog, and fifty four degrees. We're expecting a smooth flight, so sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight to San Francisco."

When John took his finger off of the PA system, Ronon was smirking. Just like he always was after John made his welcome announcement, like he was supposed to be anything but soothing and follow the same damn script every time. "What?" John said, glaring at Ronon while Ronon chuckled and checked the instruments one more time. John was listening as the instructions for runway position and order for take off came in, but he was only half-focusing.

He made this same flight, Logan to SFO, and the return trip, twice a week. They were San Francisco-based, so he kept an apartment in Berkeley for three or four days a week and a standing reservation for a hotel in Cambridge for the in between times. He could fly this route with his eyes closed, but he'd never tell any of the passengers that he was tempted to try.

John waited while the crew seated all of the passengers and ran through the safety procedure. "All set," Teyla called in, after she closed the cabin door, and then she pulled the cockpit door shut behind her with a wry smile.

They taxied out and were fourth in line for take off - running about ten minutes behind already, but it was Logan after all and there wasn't much to do about it. He'd make up as much of the time as he could in the air, push it a little, even with the wind against him.

A United plane went up, then Air Canada, and then he was waiting just behind the American Airlines Airbus A330. John spent over ten years in the cockpits of F-16s and helicopters and even though the Boeing 767 just couldn't compare for sheer style, he was grateful every goddamn time he got behind the controls and waited to take the plane up, that he got to do this almost every day, as long as he wanted to. Take her up to 40,000 feet and just let her go.

"All set, buddy?" John asked Ronon, just like every single time they'd done this together, going on four years now. Ronon grinned and nodded.

"Cleared for take off," John said over the intercom, and turned the corner to get ready to go, sending the large but sleek sea-blue plane full throttle down the runway until the air caught underneath the wings and they were up, up, up.

* * *

"We've reached our cruising altitude of forty thousand feet. It's looking pretty good up here now, but I'm getting reports of some rough patches up not too far from here, so I'm going to leave on the fasten seatbelt sign until I'm sure we're clear of it. Please stay in your seats until I turn it off."

It was a clear day at that point, and John could see upstate New York, the wide open spread of the Lake Erie below them. They were headed due west and would start to turn just a little south pretty soon. John leaned back and let Ronon take over for a few minutes. Ronon didn't say anything when John handed over the controls, just grunted and kept his eyes out the front window of the cockpit. John closed his eyes for a moment, stretching his arms up over his head and unbuttoning the top two buttons of his too-stiff white shirt.

He was about to take over again when the phone from the passenger cabin started to ring. "Sheppard," John said after picking it up.

"Hello, John," Teyla's voice was even, although she didn't really sound her normal self. They'd been flying this route together since John was a made a captain five years ago, and she even lived two floors down from him in his apartment building. He wouldn't call them best friends, but he knew Teyla as well as he knew anyone.

"What's up, Teyla?"

"Well, I hate to bother you, but we have a very _irritated_ first class passenger who may, if he continues as he is, cause Laura to punch him in the face."

"Okay..." John said, curious. Laura packed a mean right hook.

"Chuck is with her, and Carson's coming up as soon as he serves his last few drinks, but it does not look good."

"What's he so pissed off about?" John asked.

"The chicken piccata, apparently. He has accused us of trying to murder him, and he is making the other passengers nervous."

John sighed. He really hated getting involved in what happened with the passengers - half the time he tried not to think about the fact that he was responsible for over two hundred people for thirty-five hundred miles on a regular basis. It wasn't that he didn't take it seriously, but it was sometimes a burden that rested heavy across his shoulders.

"Okay, fine, fine. I'm coming back."

"Thank you," Teyla said crisply, and hung up the phone.

John hung up the phone and Ronon glanced over. "Problem in the cabin?"

"Disgruntled passenger - something about death by chicken piccata. You okay up here?" John quickly buttoned his shirt back up.

"Got it," Ronon said, waving him off.

John unlocked the cockpit door and walked out into the beverage service area before the first class section. He could see clear through to the coach seats, and just seeing all of those people packed tightly together like sardines made him feel claustrophobic and a little panicky.

At first, John wasn't sure how he'd know who Teyla was talking about, but then he caught sight of Laura's smooth, red hair, pulled back into a bun, and he could hear a man talking loudly, working up a real good head of steam. Chuck and Carson were standing in the aisle, looking at Laura's clenched fists in worry.

"Okay," John said, stepping in just to Laura's left and shooting what he hoped was a reassuring smile at the young woman sitting on the angry man's right. "What seems to be the trouble here?"

"The trouble is that I'm going to kick this guy's _ass_," Laura hissed, thankfully not loud enough for anyone else to hear, as she turned around and walked off down the aisle.

"The trouble," said the man, his hands waving, "is that your stewardesses are trying to kill me."

"You know, I think the politically correct and gender neutral term is 'flight attendant.' Chuck and Carson here might take offense to being called stewardesses."

"Whatever," the man said, and his face was just getting redder and redder as he crossed his arms over his chest. "That doesn't change the fact that I almost _died_."

John smirked. "Right, yes, I heard something about death by chicken piccata. I happen to think the chicken piccata is pretty good, by airplane standards."

"Yes, well, you would think that if you don't have a deadly citrus allergy. I know that you are supposedly not brain dead and you're responsible for getting me to San Francisco in one piece, Captain Sheppard, but I have to give a lecture at Berkeley tonight and the most impressionable minds of a generation should not be deprived of my brilliance because your 'flight attendants'," and, wow, the guy even did the air quotes and everything, "can't be bothered to pay attention to my dietary specifications."

"Wow." He didn't even know where to _start_ with that rant. "I think you might be right. They must have been trying to off you. Maybe the crew secretly works for Caltech or MIT or something, and wants to take you out?"

"Ha ha," Rodney said, glaring at John and huffing. "And besides, I work at MIT anyway."

"Well, there goes that theory. Listen," John said, waiting for the guy to supply his name.

"Dr. Rodney McKay."

"Listen, Rodney, why don't I just have Carson here bring you a citrus-free meal, and I'll make sure he takes care of you for the rest of the flight if you stop freaking out the rest of my passengers and let me get back to flying my plane before we crash into Lake Michigan or something."

The woman next to Rodney gasped at the word "crash," and John grimaced. "Sorry, I was just kidding. No crashing, no way." He turned back to Rodney. "Okay? We have a deal?"

Rodney looked deflated. "Fine. But see if I fly this airline ever again."

"I'm sure we'd all miss you, Rodney, but Laura might really punch you the next time." Rodney didn't respond, but just looked out of the window. "Carson, can you take care of Dr. McKay here?"

"Absolutely," Carson said, smiling at Rodney and making Rodney roll his eyes. "Anything he needs."

John took one more look at Rodney's tense profile, his slightly askew jacket, his thinning brown hair and blue eyes, before heading back up to the cockpit and shutting the door behind him.

* * *

It was a smooth ride the rest of the way into SFO, and the only other time John heard a peep from the passenger cabin was when Teyla handed their dinners through the door with a smile. She gave them both chicken piccata, and John didn't think he'd ever be able to eat any chicken piccata again without thinking of a very irritated and almost murdered Dr. Rodney McKay, of Berkeley _and_ MIT. He chuckled as he took a bite.

"What are you laughing at?" Ronon grumbled as he stuffed what John swore was half of a chicken breast in his mouth. John could never figure out how Ronon didn't end up without half of his dinner on the controls.

"Nothing, just the pissed off first class passenger I just subdued. He's allergic to citrus and accused Laura of trying to murder him."

"Did she punch him?" Ronon asked, almost eagerly.

"Nah," John said, taking a sip of his water. "I got there before she threw one."

"That's too bad."

Two hours later, John was taking them in for a nice, smooth landing, tapping the landing gear softly down on the runway and putting on the anti-thrusters. They taxied into the gate and John let out a deep breath, his heart beating strong and fast, just like it always did at this point, as the jetway was secured and Teyla opened the cabin door. He stood up and stretched out his legs, along with Ronon, and smiled as the passengers filed off.

When Rodney McKay walked by, John smiled sweetly and mock saluted him. "Hope to see you again soon, Dr. McKay."

"Try not to kill me the next time," Rodney said, his voice as close to cheery as John bet it ever got, his hand raised in a wave that managed to be more sarcastic then anything he ever could have said.

* * *

John had two days off before his return trip to Boston, and he was, gratefully, headed to his apartment to sit on his couch to watch TiVoed Raiders games from last season and drink beer. In sweatpants, preferably. He said goodbye to Laura, Chuck, and Carson at the gate. Ronon and Teyla were headed out to dinner, so he departed from them at the baggage claim.

He walked outside, rolling his suitcase behind him, and pulled his arms around himself against the cool, late afternoon breeze. There were a few people in front of him waiting for cabs, and normally, he'd just take the BART and enjoy the hour or so ride to Berkeley, but he was exhausted, and all he wanted to do was get home as fast as possible.

The line dwindled, and John was next when he heard someone clear their throat next to him. When he turned his head, there was the very not-dead Rodney McKay, looking a little sheepish. "Hey, Rodney," John said.

"Hello, Captain - Christ, that sounds stupid, oh Captain, my Captain! - don't you have a real name?"

"John Sheppard," and John stuck out his hand like they'd never met before. Rodney was slow on the uptake, but he took John's hand in his own, which was larger than it looked and soft, and shook it.

"Listen," Rodney said, strained, "I just wanted to say that I realize, in retrospect, that perhaps acted a little irrationally on the plane before."

"A little?" John said, raising his eyebrow.

"Okay, a lot, but it's a very severe allergy and thank god I noticed."

"Um, apology accepted?"

"Thank you," Rodney said firmly. John felt like he had whiplash, and he rubbed at the burgeoning headache between his eyes. He decided to change the subject.

"You headed to Berkeley now?" John wasn't sure why he was doing what he was doing, other than the fact that he couldn't seem to stop himself, and Rodney was the most interesting thing he'd encountered in longer than he could remember.

"Yes - I'm staying at The Claremont, on Ashby."

"Do you want to share a cab? I live a few blocks from there. I could save you the wait in the line."

Rodney looked puzzled. "You want to share a cab with me?"

"Sure, why the hell not?" John said, shrugging, as another yellow car pulled up to the curb. "Come on."

Rodney hung back for second while John tossed his bag into the trunk, like he was waiting for John to change his mind, before stepping forward and putting his bag next to John's in the trunk.

* * *

The cab ride was surprisingly pleasant, quiet until they started to cross the Bay Bridge, the sun setting dramatically over the city, and then John asked, "So, what do you do at Berkeley?"

Rodney pulled his coat tighter around himself. "I'm a visiting lecturer in astrophysics. I come out here once or twice a week and give a grad lecture, and then fly back. Truth is, Berkeley's been trying to woo me away from MIT for, well, _ever_, and I think they're close to making me a pretty lucrative offer for a tenured faculty position."

"You going to take if they do?"

"Yes - I mean, I think so. It's _Berkeley_, after all, and teaching here would be just one more thing in my Nobel Prize column, but I've been at MIT for a while and they don't really make me teach all that often, so I must admit having a soft spot for them in general. I keep figuring that I'll just make the decision when they make the offer. Twelve hours of flight time from Boston to San Francisco and back means a lot of time to contemplate one's existence."

"Yeah." John nodded, until he caught Rodney's wide eyed look, "I mean, not that I ever do anything but focus one hundred percent on flying the plane when I'm up there." The truth was, John could focus one hundred percent on flying, but he still did his best thinking at forty thousand feet, and with the clouds underneath him.

Rodney snorted. "Sure. Oh," and Rodney was gesturing to the cab driver, "this is my stop."

"I'll just get out here too," John said, not minding walking the few blocks to Kittredge from Ashby. They both stepped onto the sidewalk and John suddenly didn't know what to do with his hands, so he grabbed his suitcase out of the trunk and gripped the handle tightly.

"So," Rodney said, pushing his laptop case higher up on his shoulder to keep it from slipping off. "Thanks for sharing the cab. And I am sorry, about the chicken and the murder thing."

"Not a problem - I'm sure I'll see you around, at least until you get that offer." John shifted his weight and pulling out the retractable handle of the suitcase so that he could roll it along to his building.

Rodney nodded. "Oh, yes. Atlantis gives me the best frequent flyer miles, so I'm sure that I won't actually defect over the whole incident."

"Good to know I'll still have a job." John chuckled and saluted at Rodney again. "See you around, Dr. McKay." And then John turned around and left Rodney standing on the sidewalk in front of his overpriced hotel, rolling his suitcase along the city streets in the afternoon sunshine, the ground steady underneath his feet.

* * *

John did spend the next forty eight hours happily munching chips and drinking beer on his couch, ordering a couple of large pizzas when the chips just weren't cutting it anymore. Teyla came up for a few hours on Wednesday morning, in what looked like workout clothes, to yell at the Raiders and their really incredible ineptitude along with him. Man, she could yell. Then, she smoothly stood up from the couch and told him she'd see him later, as she left, probably to go down to the gym on the corner and beat the shit out of the heavy bag.

Thursday came around way too fast, and John took his last morning in Berkeley - before sleeping on rented sheets in a decent-but-still-not-home hotel in Cambridge for two nights - to run through the streets as the sun came up over the bay and the city across. He ran until he couldn't feel his legs, until the sun was high and warm, even though it was only March, and then he went home and showered and dressed carefully in the black pants and white shirt, clipping the wings on before grabbing his jacket and hat and going downstairs to hail a cab.

Teyla was standing down on the corner in front of their building, wearing her own uniform and looking relaxed, like she'd been on a spa vacation instead of working out for two straight days. "Good morning, John," she said evenly, gathering her hair up into a ponytail. "I called a cab - it should be here in a minute."

It was mid-day Thursday, but that didn't seem to make a damn bit of difference at SFO, even as he and Teyla and Ronon (who they'd picked up at the door of the terminal) skipped ahead of the security line and made their way quickly to the gate.

John scanned the passengers sitting at the gate when he walked up to board the plane, and then smiled at Laura as he walked down the jetway.

* * *

John knew that a lot of guys flew commercial because they liked the people - they liked being able to say hi to Midwestern families and their screaming brats and help little old ladies and all that. John flew commercial because, after getting unceremoniously booted out on his ass by the United States Air Force, he didn't know what the fuck else to do. He was grateful that they'd discharged him honorably so that he could at least get work, but he spent the first two years as a flight instructor for Atlantis Air longing so hard for the unrestrained power of a fighter jet beneath him that it almost made him cry.

Now, John was just grateful that someone paid him to take a Boeing 767 up in the air four times a week and fly thirty five hundred miles, because the alternative wasn't something he was willing to face. But there was still a part of him that absolutely _hated_ the part where he had to smile and greet the passengers and pretend like this was his first choice.

"Good afternoon," he said to a woman who had to be at least ninety five, as Chuck helped her out of the wheelchair and into the first row of coach. "Welcome aboard."

Then, the rest of the passengers started to file in. "Well, well," John said, feeling the smile spread across his face almost in spite of himself. "If it isn't the infamous Dr. Rodney McKay."

Rodney sighed and barely missed taking Chuck out with his carry-on. "Yes, you're so funny, Sheppard."

"How was Berkeley? Any word yet?"

"Not yet, but I have a meeting with the dean next trip out, so that might be it."

"Well, I'll keep my fingers crossed for you, Rodney."

Rodney waved him off. "Yes, yes, well, make sure you uncross them so you can _fly my damn plane_."

John laughed as Rodney situated himself in the first row of first class, a flurry of suitcase and overcoat and laptop that John couldn't help but stare at with something like awe. Or maybe shock, he wasn't sure. Finally, Rodney huffed and stuffed a pillow behind his head before raising his arm to get Laura's attention.

"Oh dear sweet Jesus, not again," Laura said, her voice pitched low in that 'quiet enough for only flight attendants and pilots to hear' tone. "I never thought I'd want to go back to working with the coach passengers, but this guy makes me want to."

"He's just - particular?" John grinned and Laura just rolled her eyes, pouring Rodney's coffee and then walking away. John stood and smiled, and kept it plastered on, while the rest of the eager families and weary business travelers filed on, one after another.

* * *

The flight was good; he caught a great tailwind and got them into Logan an almost unimaginable forty minutes early. The landing was sweet and smooth, and he was grinning so hard as they taxied that Ronon rolled his eyes and sighed beside him.

John made his way off the plane after the passengers deplaned, missing most of the first class passengers by the time he finished talking to Radek in the control tower. He said goodbye to the flight attendants, and to Ronon and Teyla, who always seemed to have friends to spend time with in Boston.

Honestly, John felt largely indifferent about Boston. He'd spent a little over three years living there when he was getting his master's at MIT, and about a third or so of the last five years, but he'd never loved it the way he loved California, or San Francisco, or Berkeley. He'd just lived there, or used to, or did some of the time.

Most of the time he spent in Boston was in the same hotel he'd always stayed in, not too far from the airport, but close enough to the T in case he ever wanted to go out into the city. He always got a room that faced the city, the Zakim Bridge to the north, and that usually did it for him. He ordered pizza and Chinese and Thai and sometimes sushi, and did what he did at his apartment, except it didn't feel the same.

John always took the Silver Line to the Red Line to the hotel, and tonight was no exception. He waited until the train pulled up, the wind rushing onto his face, hand gripping the suitcase handle tightly, like it could fly away, just like that. The car was nearly empty - it was after eleven on a Thursday, after all - and he sat down in the nearest seat, pulling a well-worn paperback out of the front pocket of his suitcase and settling in.

He could hear the rustling of someone sitting down near him, and he raised his head just enough to glance over a couple of seats over and see Rodney McKay sitting there, a suitcase and laptop and briefcase taking up the floor and the seat next to him, thumbing intently through a stack of papers in his hands.

"Hey, Rodney," John said, noticing that they were alone in the car. He stuffed his book back into the suitcase and zipped it shut. "Are you stalking me?"

Rodney looked up, startled - he clearly hadn't noticed that John was the other person there, either. "Maybe you're stalking _me_."

John laughed, leaning forward, his hands on the scratchy knees of his uniform pants. "No, you're definitely stalking me. Is thirty five hundred miles not enough to spend together, Dr. McKay?"

"I am _not_ stalking you." Rodney's tone was precise and indignant. "I live in Cambridge."

"Really? I never pictured you as a Cambridge kind of guy. Do you live in Kendall?"

"On the Cambridge side of Davis, actually, there's good coffee - what do you know about Cambridge anyway?" Rodney said suspiciously.

John shrugged. "I lived in Cambridge for a couple of years - right off Harvard Square - while I was at MIT." And it was hilarious, watching Rodney almost sputter, as he realized that the guy who ferried him back and forth across the country must have an actual _brain_, if he'd studied at Rodney's place of employment.

"You went to MIT?" Rodney said incredulously.

"Yup," John answered, sitting back against the worthless attempt at cushioning a hard, plastic subway seat. "I got my master's there - well, more like three and a half years of doctoral work, but the master's is what I have to show for it. Applied math."

John just sat and waiting, appreciating greatly the seconds that passed while Rodney's mouth gaped open and he grasped for a response. "Why'd you stop after three and a half years?"

"Bosnia - I was deployed. Air Force. And then I just couldn't stand the idea of being grounded again, so I stayed active after that." John paused, then added, "For a while, anyway."

"You gave up math for the military?"

"I know, it's hard to believe," John said, keeping half an ear out for when they reached South Station.

Rodney put the papers down on top of his coat. "How come you didn't finish? I mean, you clearly aren't Air Force anymore, so why not do the semester or so of course work and write the damn paper?"

"I like flying," he said simply, knowing that it wasn't going to make any sense to Rodney at all. Hell, he'd asked these same questions to himself when he'd washed out seven years before, seriously contemplating a return to the safe embrace of theoretical mathematics, but he couldn't stomach being out of the air anymore. So he'd applied for the Atlantis job instead, and never looked back. "Do you always ask so many questions?"

And sure enough, Rodney rolled his eyes. "I think you _are_ too stupid to fly me cross country twice a week, even in spite of the math," he said snidely, which just made John smile more.

"That's too bad, Rodney," John said, getting to his feet and gathering his coat as the Courthouse stop was announced. He turned to Rodney, who was still sprawled over what seemed like half of the subway car. "Coming?"

* * *

They rode the rest of the way to Kendall in companionable silence, John already halfway in his head to taking off his uniform and sprawling across the white hotel sheets for the rest of the night. He stood up as the train raced underground, closer to the Charles River. "This is my stop," John said, tugging his jacket back into place and pulling up the handle of his bag.

"Oh, okay," Rodney said, starting to put away his own things.

"You flying back on Saturday?"

"Yes," Rodney replied, and John moved to the door.

"Well, see you in a couple of days, McKay."

The train started to slow, the screech of the brakes loud in the tunnel as they passed through. "Wait - John - " Rodney burst out, and John turned to look at him, raising his eyebrow. Rodney looked a little flustered, his cheeks flushed. "Do you have plans, tomorrow, maybe for lunch?" The train was slowing down even further.

John considered it for a minute. He'd never even talked to a passenger off of the plane before, and yes, he saw Rodney more than he saw anyone other than his crew, in all honesty. And what would it hurt to have a meal with the guy while they were in the same city? "Nope," John said, watching Rodney's smile spread across his face, the doors about to open any second. He yanked his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. "Give me your number, I'll call you and then you'll have my number."

Rodney recited the digits and John punched them into his cell phone, then glanced at him one last time, taking in Rodney's pleased expression, before stepping out of the train into the deserted station.

* * *

Rodney called at 11:30. John had slept until nine and then gone out for a run along the Charles, with the traffic of Memorial Drive streaming past him, the weather bright and clear and cold, showing off a glittering Boston across the water. He'd stayed out a long time, not wanting to stop, enjoying the cool air and sun. He almost stumbled back into the hotel, making it back just in time to hear his cell ringing on the bedside table.

"Hello?" he said, still a little out of breath.

"Hello, John?" Rodney's voice sounded a little bit different on the phone

"Hey, Rodney, how's it going?" John wiped his face with a hand towel from the bathroom.

"I'm okay," Rodney said. "Have you been running a marathon or something? You're panting in my ear."

John laughed. "Uh, well, I just ran ten miles, so not quite a marathon."

"I should have known that you'd be a runner," Rodney muttered, then cleared his throat. "Anyway, are you still up for lunch? Do you like sushi?"

"Yeah, sushi sounds good," John answered, smiling in spite of himself.

And that's how he ended up at Takemura in Harvard Square, after a quick shower and two stops on the T. He had lived four blocks from where they were sitting, over ten years ago, and now they were sharing edamame and spicy tuna rolls, John listening to Rodney talk about how students at MIT really should be smarter, and how he'd just published a paper on theoretical wormhole dynamics. He asked John what his dissertation work had been on, and John started to launch into a discussion of number theory that no one he'd ever met would have been able to follow. When John was done, Rodney looked at him, stunned. "You did your work with Carlson, right?" John nodded, stealing a piece of yellowtail off Rodney's plate. "You should come by and talk to him when you're in town. Your - this - it's really good, John, even after ten years."

John blushed and ducked his head a bit. "I'm not really interested, Rodney. I like my job."

Rodney shook his head, throwing his napkin down on the table with a sigh. "Well, then, if you're sure. Although, I might ask you to take a look at some equations - maybe in all that free time you have while keeping us up in the air?" He smiled smugly at John across the ruins of their lunch.

"I only need one hand to operate the plane," John shot back.

After, they wandered slowly, like some weird kind of dance, back out onto JFK and toward Harvard, back to the T. John was smiling - it had been etched on his face since he met Rodney on the street above the T two hours before. He couldn't remember the last time he'd spent this long _not_ at work with anyone other than Teyla. It was really nice, even though - and maybe _because_ \- Rodney was annoying and picky and rude and got mad at John for not doing math anymore, even though they'd only known each other for four days.

"Well, thank you," Rodney said, shifting his bag - which John was sure was full of papers and at least one laptop - on his shoulder. John pushed his hands into the pocket of his jeans. It was unseasonably warm for late March, and he thought his down jacket might be too much, because he was sweating a little. "It's nice to have lunch with someone who, well - who isn't a professor."

"Um, I think that's a compliment?" Rodney nodded emphatically, and John continued, "Thanks for asking me. I don't go out much in Boston - I usually hit the room service and the TV pretty hard when I'm here."

Then, Rodney glanced down at his watch, his eyes going wide. "Oh, crap - sorry, it's just - I have, uh - a class in a half an hour. We should probably go."

John had this sudden urge to stay, to walk around and remember being twenty three again - high on math that was just inside his grasp and the prospect of some kind of flight. He wanted to go to the Co-op and sit among books for three hours, like he used to do when he was in grad school, and eat soup at Pho Pasteur until he almost burst. "I'm going to stay," he said, and Rodney nodded. "Thanks again."

"You're welcome." Rodney stuck out his hand, and John reached out and took it. Rodney was looking at him, his head cocked to one side and his mouth crooked, and John couldn't figure out what it meant, but he figured out that he'd been standing in the middle of Harvard Square holding Rodney McKay's hand for a little longer than was considered normal. He widened his eyes, and Rodney picked his head back up and pulled away, a little slowly. "Um, right," Rodney said, reaching into his pocket for his Charlie Ticket, "so, see you Saturday?"

"See you Saturday, Rodney," John said, and watched as Rodney, in a flurry of papers and coat and bag, took off down the stairs.

* * *

John stood in the front of the plane, greeting passengers, just like always. He felt exhausted, like the ridiculous amount of sleep he'd managed to get the last couple of nights in the now-familiar hotel room never happened at all. He was ready for the next seven hours to be over, ready to be back in the familiar comfort of his apartment, with his TV and his couch and his stuff.

Although, if he thought about it, his exhaustion might be coming from the fact that, in the thirty-six hours since he saw Rodney for lunch, he'd run by McNair at MIT a truly embarrassing number of times, making the relatively short loop from the hotel through campus and back, and finally giving up after it was more than dark. And before he could run into his old advisor outside of Building 2.

The flight was almost completely sold out, and had that packed feeling that just made John want to flee for the cockpit and stay there forever. A quick check to his watch told him that there were about fifteen minutes left until their scheduled take-off. A quick glance into the first class section showed an empty seat, right in the second row, but no Rodney in sight. John turned to head back to his seat to do his pre-flight checks, and before he could ask Teyla to close the cockpit door, he heard what couldn't be anything but Rodney, huffing and puffing, swearing and apologizing, as he said hello to Teyla and Laura. John glanced back to catch Rodney's eye as Rodney threw himself down unceremoniously into his seat, managing to get more than one angry glare from the blond woman next to him. Rodney was stuffing papers into the back of the seat in front of him, and looked up just as the cockpit door was swinging shut.

The corner of Rodney's mouth was turned up, and John couldn't help but smile back.

* * *

John didn't see Rodney leave the plane after they landed at SFO - John was stuck talking to the engineering guys for a half an hour about a strange sound he'd heard during what was a truly rough pass over the Rockies. He prided himself on smooth flights, but there wasn't anything he could do this time; it even got a little worse after he climbed an extra five thousand feet to try to get out of the turbulence.

He finally dragged himself, pissed off and frustrated and exhausted, to the shuttle, ready to get on the BART and get home. He was waiting for the AirTrain, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt when he heard someone clear their throat. When he looked up, Rodney was standing there, looking a bit disheveled and tired too and really, really good. His overflowing laptop bag was perched on his shoulder, his suit jacket over this arm and John wanted to reach over and loosen his tie too.

"Hey," Rodney said, smiling tiredly. "Quite the flight, huh?"

"Ugh," John groaned, rolling his eyes, "don't even get me started. That sucked." He held out the handle of his suitcase, and Rodney rolled _his eyes_, but took it anyway so that John could take off his own jacket, roll up his sleeves. When he was done, John reached over and grabbed the handle, his fingers brushing the back of Rodney's hand as Rodney let go.

Rodney shrugged, but he was still smiling. "Yes, well," and Rodney held up two fingers, like a peace sign, "Laura was kind enough to make sure that I had two glasses of scotch, so I don't remember much." John grinned back. That explained the slightly goofy edge to Rodney's smile.

"So," John said, following Rodney into the shuttle, trying to pretend the other people filing in and out around them didn't exist. "Big meeting with the dean soon, right?"

"What?" Rodney looked a little surprised, but pulled together quickly as he gripped the metal bar, his suitcase between his legs. "I mean, yes, I - it's tomorrow. At 10:30."

John nodded. "Well, good luck."

"Thanks. I'm about ninety-nine percent sure that it's going to go exactly like I expect it to. Mercer has all but told me the position is mine, but there's always getting the approval of the provost and everything, and you can never be sure in academia, although Mercer knows when not to pass up an opportunity to snag someone like me away from MIT." Rodney took a deep breath, cutting off the stream of babble. "I'm tired of being bicoastal. And, no offense, but I won't miss the flying."

John was happy for Rodney - it sounded like this was something he really wanted, and how was it that he went from talking Rodney down so that one of the flight attendants wouldn't punch him in the face, to caring whether or not Rodney would be there, in row two of first-class, every time he took off. That he cared if Rodney got the job he wanted.

"None taken," he said, smiling back at Rodney, feeling the tired skin pull tight around his eyes. "I'll miss you pissing off my crew, though."

"Hey!" Rodney exclaimed as the shuttle pulled up to the ground transportation area, and John didn't even say anything, didn't know what to say, as he followed Rodney outside, and followed him into a cab bound for Berkeley.

* * *

"John."

John registered the soft sound of someone's voice, just before he felt the heat of a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. The hand was warm, and he reached up to cover it with his own. John blinked his eyes open slowly and focused on Rodney's face, which was very close to his own. "What?" he said groggily, reluctantly dropping his hand from Rodney's, which was hot and felt like it was almost burning through John's wrinkled uniform shirt.

"Um, we're at your apartment," Rodney said softly, snatching his hand back like _he_ was the one being burned, and looking down at where his hands were now clasped in his lap.

John looked at him, puzzled, then turned to see the water wall of Library Gardens out of his window. "How did you know where I lived?"

"Well," and Rodney still wasn't making eye contact, "I maybe looked in your wallet? At your driver's license?" John narrowed his eyes, and Rodney kept right on going. "It's just, you looked exhausted and you fell asleep almost before we pulled out of the airport, and I figured you wouldn't want to wake up at my hotel and have to walk, so I thought it was the polite thing to do."

John smiled, shifting slowly up from his slump on the seat. His back was killing him. "It's fine," he said softly, rubbing one hand over his hair.

Rodney looked up at John, nodding. "Okay."

"Well," John said, finally getting his hand on the door handle, shaking a little to clear the sleep from his eyes. The sun was just starting to set outside, with the streetlights starting to turn on, flickering to life, all around them. "It's been real, McKay. And, hey, good luck with your meeting."

"Thanks," Rodney said, smiling almost shyly, which didn't seem like him _at all_. John smiled back and then turned to open the door. Just as he lifted his foot to set it on the dirty concrete of the sidewalk, he felt the same hand from before clutch his arm, holding him back. He turned back to face Rodney, but Rodney didn't let go. His blue eyes were pinning John back against the dirty, cracking black vinyl seat, and John had a million words on the tip of his tongue. Things like _yes_ and _I want_ and _my apartment's right here_. He hadn't looked forward to anything but flying in years the way he looked forward to seeing Rodney every few days on his plane, in a random cab, on the T, in a sushi restaurant in Harvard Square. Rodney made him want to actually go into Building 2 for the first time in almost fifteen years, to discover all over again the math that had never been as good as planes. John had spent his whole life choosing one thing over another: the Air Force over his dad, his career over who he really was, flying over math. Flying over everything. Rodney made him want to have it all, made him want to write his dissertation and fly fighter jets and never leave this cab, at this moment.

"Rodney," he pleaded, not sure what he would follow it with but hoping that Rodney might let him off the hook for figuring it out.

Instead, Rodney tugged him a bit closer, fingers closed hot around John's bicep, his cheeks flushed but his mouth set in a hard, determined line. "I - do you - I have to - "

"I have to go," John said, interrupting, willing Rodney to _let him go_ before Rodney did something stupid. "I'll see you in a couple of days, okay?"

Rodney didn't let go for a few more long moments while he studied John like he was a painting on the wall at the MFA, like he was the most complicated and perplexing mathematical proof at MIT. Then, Rodney dropped his hand, closing his eyes and sighing. "Yes, okay," he said, turning to face the back of the driver's head. "See you then."

John didn't look back as he got out of the cab, removed his small suitcase from the trunk, and only let himself watch the taxi roll away from the curb.  


* * *

John couldn't remember what he'd spent most of his weekend doing, or in what order. He knew it had included running a few times on campus, eating, watching TV, and sleeping, but anything more detailed than that was a blur. The one thing he could remember with absolutely clarity was the number of times he picked up his cell phone and scrolled through the incoming calls to see Rodney's number there, and in the outgoing calls too. He remembered that sometime late on Thursday night, he finally saved Rodney's number to his contacts, which he hadn't done the day he'd called Rodney on the T, and now could see "Rodney McKay" staring back him from his (pathetically short) list of phone numbers.

He'd even pressed the talk button once when the cursor was on Rodney's name, but managed to freak out and press 'end' before the call could even connect. Afterwards, he sat there, staring at the phone, his heart racing, feeling more stupid than he could remember feeling in a long time, which was saying a lot in what sometimes felt like a whole lifetime of stupid.

The phone didn't ring once all weekend. The only people that called him on a regular basis were his crew, and when he was in Berkeley, Teyla usually just stopped by instead of calling. In fact, she came by the night before they were leaving again, knocking softly.

"Come in," he called from the couch, flipping his phone shut and tossing it, way too hard, onto the coffee table, next to his warm beer, with a thud. He winced.

Teyla peeked around the corner of the door, looking at him like he was five. "John, you really should lock your door."

"Yeah, yeah," John grumbled, as Teyla came in and walked over to the couch, sitting down next to him. He leaned back against the nubbly fabric and sighed. Then he groaned, covering his eyes with his hands, as Teyla reached over to pick up his phone off of the table in front of her. He didn't even try to stop her as she pushed buttons and scrolled through his contacts, his missed calls, his outgoing and incoming.

Teyla leaned forward to put the phone down, then trained her eyes on him. "John," she started, and John groaned again, pulling his legs up onto the couch, grabbing onto his raised knees.

"I know, okay? I know," he said, resting his forehead against his knees.

"John," Teyla tried again, and this time there was something in her voice that made John look up at her. She was tucked up into herself like he was, and she reached out a hand to clasp his knee. "I know that you like to make things more difficult for yourself - "

"I do not!"

The glare Teyla shot back at him in response was enough to shut him up. After five years of working together, living near each other, he knew better than to keep going. "You deserve to be happy, John," Teyla said resolutely. "You've been alone for far too long."

John didn't know what to say to that. Because he had been alone for a long time. It felt like any memories of glances shared over dinners, waking up next to someone else, feeling like there was a reason that it mattered where he was and when he got there, were all things so distant that they must have happened to someone else. For so long it had just been flying - staying up in the air at all costs, making sure he never lost the ability to get up above the clouds - that had mattered at all. All he had wanted to care about when he'd left the Air Force. He couldn't think of a single time he'd ever thought about another person as much as he did about Rodney McKay, who'd driven John crazy over a dinner, a few rides on public transportation, and a hand on John's arm.

John looked over at Teyla, who was watching him intently, her eyes turned down a little at the corners, the way she looked when she was worried about something. He nodded at her, and felt her curl just a bit closer.

* * *

Logan was packed as John willed the crowds to part around him, so he could make it to the T as fast as possible. The flight had been fine, almost painfully predictable, easy, and on-schedule. He hadn't seen Rodney at all, because he had chickened out and stayed in the cockpit. Ronon rolled his eyes at John when he came back from welcoming the passengers aboard and John gave him the finger while he went through the rest of the pre-flight checks.

He hadn't even known if Rodney was on the plane until Teyla had opened the door and said in an altogether too cheerful voice, "Rodney says hello, John." John had grunted in response, feeling his face heat up under Ronon's gaze, and he could almost feel Teyla's eyes rolling as he heard the cockpit door shut behind her again.

He made his way down the stairs to the platform, and was craning his neck down the track to see if he could make out the train's lights when he heard, "John! Sheppard!" John closed his eyes and took a deep breath, before turning around to face Rodney behind him.

"Hi," John said, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Rodney had his ubiquitous laptop bag over his shoulder, and his suitcase handle in hand. He was wearing a hip-length black leather jacket over his blue shirt and dark blue tie. He looked a little tired and excited and so good that John took a step forward without being able to help himself.

"Hello," Rodney said, his smile broadening now.

John couldn't help but smile back. "So, I guess your meeting with the dean went well, huh?"

Rodney puffed up almost visibly and shifted a little closer to John, too. "Yes! I mean, it went extremely well. I haven't officially accepted, but I plan to - it's Berkeley, better money, less teaching, and my own lab space that MIT can't come up with in a million years, not with the way they've got people packed into McNair like sardines."

"That's great," John said, trying not to be sorry that Rodney wouldn't be sitting in his plane every time. Happy that Rodney was clearly over the moon about the new job.

John felt the whoosh of the train across his face before he really even saw it, and Rodney followed him on without a word. John paused for a second before heading over to a bank of empty seats. He sat down and barely had a second before he felt the heat of Rodney pressed up against this right side. John swallowed hard. The scrape of the train against the metal tracks was almost impossibly loud. They got out at South Station and onto the Red Line, the train even more crowded this time, Rodney even closer, almost sitting in John's lap.

"Listen," Rodney said, almost quietly, like he was trying to have a private conversation with John on packed subway car. "I want to take you out to celebrate. To dinner. Can you - do you - "

John knew he should say no, he should say he was too tired after the flight and go to his hotel and sleep it the fuck off. He knew it was a slippery slope, after how close he was to dragging Rodney upstairs to his apartment in Berkeley, but instead he just said, "Yes."

Rodney smiled, different than when he'd been happy about his job - an almost private smile. "Really? I mean, okay, good."

The train pulled out of Charles/MGH, and John said, "Tell me where to meet you, and I'll be there."

* * *

It was a Friday night, and Harvard Square was crowded, everyone out to enjoy one of the nicest days they'd had in what felt like forever. It was always like this during a warm spell in Cambridge in April - everyone emerging from the winter hibernation on days like this, even though, without fail, they'd probably get one last arctic blast before it was really, truly spring.

John emerged from the T, right into the frenetic busyness of Harvard Square on a Saturday night. It was hard to keep this energy down even when the weather was spectacularly shitty. The air was warm through the thin cotton of his white shirt, which was wrinkle-free, but casual at the same time. He walked the two blocks from the station with his hands shoved down into his pockets, trying to quiet his mind, trying not to anticipate as much as he was. He was so busy thinking that it was almost like his legs went on auto-pilot.

When he arrived at the restaurant, Rodney was there, waiting, even though he'd struck John as a fashionably late sort of guy up to that point. Rodney turned from where he had been facing the menu, his brow furrowed a bit, but his face relaxed and lit up when he saw John. "Hello," Rodney said, smiling, and John smiled back and shifted from foot to foot.

"So, um - " John started, then stopped, because he was pretty sure this wasn't a date. Rodney had asked him to come out, yeah, but he'd never said anything else, but it really _felt_ like a date in all the ways that mattered. John was a little bit nervous, palms sweaty, and he felt like he didn't know where to put his _feet_ or what to say or anything. It was awkward in a way that it never had been between the two of them. Maybe because it had never felt like there was intent before.

"Thanks - for coming, I mean. It's - well - " Rodney almost stuttered, then laughed a bit at himself, and that seemed to break the awkwardness somehow. John grinned at Rodney, hands still in his pockets, and gestured at the restaurant door. Rodney nodded, and John stood to the side to let Rodney go ahead of him.

The restaurant was a little Italian place that John could swear just appeared out of nowhere, because he'd lived in Cambridge for the better part of ten years and never knew it was there. It lacked the frenzy of so many of the other Harvard Square restaurants, where you constantly felt as though you had to elbow your way in just to sit down and eat your meal. It was dimly lit, but really nice, hard woods everywhere, and just a handful of couples sitting at candlelit tables. It was almost - romantic.

John swallowed and tamped down the urge to freak out and run away screaming. They were celebrating Rodney's new job, and he could deal for a couple of hours to have dinner with the guy.

A waiter in a crisp white shirt and jeans approached them, smiling, and John stood to the side, breathing deeply, as Rodney talked quietly with the waiter. Then, they were being led to a table in the corner, far enough away from the few others there to feel private. Rodney shucked his light jacket and hung it over the back of his chair, sitting down and staring at John. Shit. He'd spaced out for a minute, because Rodney was wearing jeans and a green shirt and he looked -

"Are you going to eat standing up?" Rodney said, his mouth quirked up, his voice soft.

The chair scraped against the floor as John pulled it out, and he winced as he sat down. There was the paralyzing awkwardness again. "Sorry, I - I'm - "

Rodney sighed. "I think we need wine."

Two bottles of pinot noir, antipasti, fried calamari (hold the lemon), baked manicotti for Rodney and veal saltimbocca for John (he'd threatened to get the chicken piccata, and it was _so_ worth it to see Rodney huff in indignation), John was stuffed and everything was a little fuzzy around the edges. The first couple of glasses of wine were all he'd needed to stop feeling like a bumbling idiot, and they'd spent the last couple of hours talking about work and life and more than he'd talked about with anyone, in years. Rodney told John about turning down a major government contract a few years back, because he didn't like doing work that no one would ever have the chance to learn from, and John told Rodney about his black mark.

"So let me get this straight," Rodney said around a mouthful of cheesecake, eyes narrowed. "They kicked you out for trying to save someone?"

It was freeing, to finally be talking about this. He couldn't remember if he ever had before. "Yeah, that's about it. For disobeying a direct order from a superior officer. It could have been dishonorably, so I think I got off pretty easy." He reached over to snag a bite too, and Rodney almost speared his hand with his fork.

"Well," Rodney said, dropping his fork next to the plate. He picked up his napkin from his lap and carefully wiped around his mouth before throwing the napkin back on the table. John had to shake his head a little to stop looking at Rodney's mouth. "I have to say, that is quite possibly the stupidest thing I have ever heard. It's amazing that your country isn't still a part of the Crown with that kind of military policy."

"My country?" John said, mouth agape a little.

"Oh, come on." Rodney leaned back in his chair. "I'm Canadian, you imbecile."

John laughed, leaning back too. "Wow, Rodney, if this is you out on a date, I wouldn't want to see what you're like otherwise." It was barely out of his mouth when he cringed, because he wasn't sure it was a date. In fact, he was pretty sure it _wasn't_, or at least he thought so. Or -

When John looked up, Rodney was staring at him, his face serious, his gaze completely unflinching. And there was that splayed out feeling again, and John gripped the edge of his chair under the table to keep from turning away. Rodney just stared and stared, and then leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Hmm," Rodney said, and John wanted to _strangle_ him.

"Hmm?" John shot back, annoyed. "Are you - "

"I was just thinking," Rodney interrupted, "that if this is a date, well - I mean - " He cleared his throat. "Isn't this the part where we're supposed to get the hell out of here?"

John's heart was pounding, and when he left his hotel room and made his way to the T earlier, this wasn't even close to how he'd imagined he'd be spending his evening. He'd figured that he would spend the whole time wanting what he couldn't have, and then leave to go back to another empty hotel room, in time to sleep alone and make another long flight back to San Francisco. There was a part of him that was telling him insistently to _go_, to leave before things got even more complicated, before he wanted any more to just do this. There was also a small part of him, getting louder every minute, that said that he couldn't walk out of this restaurant and go back to that empty room.

"Okay," John said, almost a whisper, and Rodney looked almost startled, like he'd expected John to say no, to just turn him down and leave right then and there.

"Right, yes," Rodney rushed out, recovering pretty fast, standing up suddenly and pushing out his chair behind him so fast that it almost tipped over. He reached into his pocket, taking out his wallet and throwing a handful of bills on the table. John felt a little crazy with how his hands were shaking, but he got up too, and followed Rodney out of the door.

As if he couldn't wait the time it would take to ride two stops on the T, Rodney hailed a cab outside of the restaurant and hopped in. John took a deep breath and climbed in after him.

"Where to?" the driver asked, glancing at them both in the rearview mirror. John felt like anyone who looked at him could see what they were planning to do, what they were in this cab for, and he felt his face get hot. Rodney didn't answer right away, still looking a little stunned, so John said, "The Hyatt right off Memorial Drive."

"Okay," the driver replied, and they crawled through the complicated maze of Cambridge streets, John shivering every time Rodney's hand brushed his on the seat between them.

* * *

By the time they got up the stairs to John's hotel room, John thought he was going completely crazy. There were about five times where he almost lost it and started to grope Rodney in the cab. Now that they were in the semi-privacy of the hotel corridor, John didn't think he could stand it anymore. He reached into his pocket to pull his key card out, and he had it halfway to the slot when he felt himself being spun around and slammed up against the wall.

Rodney was pressed against him, kneecaps touching, Rodney's broad, hard chest warm against John's. John groaned, closing his eyes and tipping his head back against the wall, Rodney mouthing up the line of John's neck. Rodney's hand was tipping John's chin forward again, ready to kiss him, and John leaned forward, into it, Rodney's mouth just an inch from his, and, god, he wanted - except they were in the hall, and John turned his head, his breath coming hard.

"Rodney," he gasped, pushing into the feel of Rodney's big hands on his hips.

"Christ, what?" Rodney said, pulling back and looking annoyed.

"Hallway," John laughed as he turned around toward the door, Rodney still clutching at the hem of John's shirt.

Now that John had turned around, Rodney turned his attention to John's ear, and John shivered as he jammed the card into the door and pushed it open, dragging Rodney into the room with him.

The bed wasn't far from the door, and John let go of Rodney, unbuttoning his shirt and dropping it on the floor. He sat on the bed, then moved back to stretch his legs out, his arms up behind his head. Everything seemed to have slowed down from the frenetic pace in the hallway. "You coming?" he said, grinning slowly.

Rodney was standing just inside the door, hair sticking up a bit, mouth wet and open, looking a little stunned. His shirt was half untucked from John clutching at him. "What?" Rodney said faintly, staring at John's chest. "I mean - yes, of course, I - "

"Take off your jacket and stay awhile," John said smugly, reaching down to thread the leather of his belt out of the buckle. He could see Rodney swallow, and stall again.

"God." Rodney closed his eyes as he unbuttoned his own shirt, then pulled off the black t-shirt underneath it, getting down to skin. "Don't do that if you want me to be able to _talk_ any time soon."

"I wasn't thinking of doing much talking, Rodney," John said slowly, and that did it, because Rodney's eyes snapped open, and he was kicking off his shoes as he walked over to the bed, released from whatever had been holding him near the door. He kneed between John's thighs, and John groaned. It had been too long, and John had wanted this since that first moment he'd seen Rodney, sputtering and angry in his first-class section, since they'd shared that first cab together. He _wanted_, and he was going to have this.

Rodney lowered his body against John's, and he was so hot, so heavy and real above John, and John braced his palms against the smooth, uninterrupted white of the skin of Rodney's back. "Rodney," he said, mouthing under Rodney's ear, feeling Rodney buck in his arms, "I want - "

"What?" Rodney gasped, grinding his hard dick against John's, and John groaned. "What do you want?"

"I - " John worked his hand down between the press of their bodies, and cupping Rodney through his jeans. "God, I want to suck you."

"Yeah," Rodney breathed, pushing hard into John's hand, "of course, _god_, John, please - "

John reluctantly moved his hand up to Rodney's chest, pushing gently until Rodney got a clue and rolled off of John, onto his back on the bed. John dropped down to his knees on the slightly-worn carpet, reaching up to tug Rodney's hips to the edge of the bed, then getting to work on Rodney's belt, the button and zipper. Rodney pushed himself up onto his elbows to watch as John reached up and tugged Rodney's boxers and pants down enough to get his cock out. It was hard and jutting out from Rodney's hips.

Rodney was breathing heavily, and John braced his hands on Rodney's hips and leaned forward to lick at the moisture already gathering at the tip of Rodney's cock. It wasn't the hugest cock John had ever seen, but it was thick and hard and hot against John's lips, and he vaguely heard Rodney choke out a "John!" before John wrapped one hand around the base of Rodney's cock and sucked him in.

John got lost in it for a while, and hummed around Rodney's cock when Rodney's hand came down to thread through John's hair, just holding him there. Rodney was talking constantly, and John tuned in to hear Rodney saying, "oh Christ, John, I - that's just - please, don't - I wanted, I wanted - " It made John suck harder, use his tongue around the head of Rodney's dick, reach one hand up to cup Rodney's balls. He wanted too, and he forgot how much he loved this, the way that it felt to have a cock sliding along his tongue, the delicious stretch at the corners of his mouth. Rodney was pushing his hips up against John's hand that wasn't wrapped around his cock, and John pressed him down and moaned around Rodney's cock. "John, I'm going to - " Rodney bit out, his thigh muscles bunching underneath John's forearm. He wanted Rodney to come - his own cock was pinned and aching inside his jeans - and he took his hand off Rodney's dick, putting both hands on the bed next to Rodney's hips, and let Rodney rock up into his mouth, against his tongue, the head of Rodney's cock nudging against his throat. He swallowed and hummed and tried his best with his mouth full to let Rodney know that it was fine, to take it, to _come_ already.

"Yes," Rodney gritted out, "just like that, is this okay? Are you sure, because this is - yes - this is so good. I want to come, can I, please, oh, god - " Rodney tugged on John's hair a bit, and John sucked hard and held on as Rodney shouted, clutched, and came, hot and hard and so, so perfect, down John's throat. He sucked Rodney through it, swallowing around the thick, bitter taste in his mouth, wanting to stay right there forever even though he was starting to feel how much his knees ached, but Rodney was batting at his head and trying, with little success, to tug him up.

"Come here," Rodney said, sounding wrecked and clutching at John's shoulders. "Come on, please."

John stood up slowly, letting his knees stretch a bit, before lowering himself onto the bed next to Rodney. Rodney's cock was lying soft and wet and spent against his thigh, and John smiled. He turned onto his side to face Rodney, whose eyes were closed, and he was still panting and flailing his hands a bit. It was kind of cute, actually, to see how much John had rendered him pretty much useless.

A few moments later, Rodney turned his head and blinked his eyes open, smiling slowly at John before reaching over and silently working John's pants open, competent and efficient. John felt like he was going to _die_ when Rodney finally took him in hand, giving him one long, firm stroke from root to tip. "Oh, god," John whispered, pushing into Rodney's fist, and he wasn't going to last long, not after sucking Rodney like that and with the taste of Rodney's come still in his mouth. He licked around his lips, and then Rodney was growling and leaning into kiss him, chasing his own taste on John's tongue. His rhythm on John's cock was steady but not fast enough to get John off in the mere seconds that he felt like it could take, because he was so hard and so ready and _wanting_, and Rodney's grip was just shy of too tight, working him hard and good and exactly right.

Rodney finally tore his mouth away, gasping into John's ear and whispering to him, like a litany, "Come on, I want you to, come on," over and over and John couldn't remember ever feeling this good just having someone else's hand on his dick, but he was fucking up into Rodney's hand and making sounds that would be embarrassing if he could be bothered to care. He just hoped no one called the front desk on them or anything, but he thought that this would be worth it. "Come on, John," Rodney said, moving faster, and that was _it_, right _there_, and before he could even really process it, John was arching his back and coming so hard everything behind his eyes went white. Rodney just kept stroking him, dragging his thumb through John's come and using it to make everything slicker and hotter, and John rolled his eyes back into his head and took it, until he couldn't stand it anymore and had to reach down to still Rodney's hand. Rodney pulled away.

"Oh my god," John groaned, flopping over onto his back, breathing heavy.

"Yeah," Rodney said, almost sounding awed as he tucked into John's side, reaching over to trace the lines of John's come on his belly. "Wow."

John's eyes drooped, and he reached out to tug Rodney even closer, falling asleep wrapped in Rodney's warmth, and with a smile on his face.

* * *

John woke to the sun warm on his face, and Rodney still wrapped around him. Every moment of the night before came rushing back, and John felt him face flush, and his cock twitched too. He wiggled closer to Rodney and Rodney stirred, then blinked open his eyes.

"Hi," Rodney said, looking a little far away.

"Hi yourself," John replied, letting himself smile a bit as Rodney's thigh pressed up against John's rapidly hardening cock. John hoped that Rodney didn't have anywhere to be early in the morning, because he was kind of ready to go again. Then, suddenly, Rodney was pulling away, yanking up his pants and boxers and sitting on the edge of the bed, leaving John cold.

John was confused - he didn't understand how they'd gone from mind blowing sex and _cuddling_ and sleep to Rodney sitting with his back hunched and his head in his hands. John tucked himself back into his pants, and pushed himself up to sit too. Something was wrong, and John reached out to clasp Rodney's shoulder. He swore he felt Rodney flinch, just a bit. "Rodney?" John asked, trying to keep his voice even.

"I have to tell you something." Rodney turned his head to look at John. He looked miserable.

"Okay," John said slowly, a feeling of dread settling at the bottom of his stomach.

Rodney took a deep breath and said, "I have a girlfriend. Here, in Boston. Jennifer. Her name's Jennifer."

John didn't know what to say or what to do. He felt almost numb, like the world was slowing down, and he leaned forward to grab his shirt off of the floor, putting it on but not buttoning it, just needing something to cover himself with. "What?" John said, almost dumbly, because this didn't make any sense. Rodney had pursued him, had asked him out and wanted to come back to the hotel with him, and John hadn't even suspected, not once. It'd had been longer than he could remember since he'd let someone distract him from being in the air, from that being the only thing that mattered, and he felt like someone had punched him in the gut.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you." Rodney turned his face away, like he couldn't look at John and say this too. "Things with Jennifer and I have been, well - not great is an overstatement, lately, and we've already talked about calling it off for good once I move to Berkeley full-time. We barely see each other anyway. And then I met you, and you're - I know I should have told you. I know that."

"Damn right," John said shortly, getting up and buttoning up his pants, buckling his belt. He had spent so long believing he couldn't have this, and finally, _finally_, he'd let himself want someone else in his life, something other than flying, looked forward to seeing someone else and how that made him feel. He wished he hadn't - he really, really did. His hands shook as he buttoned his shirt.

"John." Rodney sounded almost desperate, reaching out to grasp at John's wrist, but John wrenched away. "John, I'm sorry. I didn't mean - "

"Just go," John said, slowly and steadily, standing and facing the wall, afraid that if he looked at Rodney, he wouldn't be able to make him go, and he _needed_ Rodney to leave.

Rodney didn't say anything, but John could hear him gathering up his clothes and getting dressed. He stayed where he was, hands at his side, just waiting.

"For what it's worth, I'm going to call it off now. Today," Rodney said, and John closed his eyes, willed himself not to turn around.

"Not worth much," John whispered, and heard the door click shut as Rodney left the room.

* * *

The sun sparkled on the surface of the Charles, another bright and unseasonably warm day in Cambridge, and John let himself feel nothing but the impact of his feet against the pavement, the jolt up the bones of his legs, the sweat gathering at the base of his spine as he pushed, harder and harder until his lungs burned. The path was starting to get crowded as the rest of the city woke up, but John didn't even look at anyone else, just kept his legs moving, kept _not_ thinking about anything, especially not Rodney.

* * *

"It's good to see you, John," Elizabeth said with a practiced smile, shaking his hand, and then gesturing toward the empty chair facing her desk. "Have a seat."

John tucked his uniform hat under his arm and dropped down in the chair, smiling across at Elizabeth. Sitting here, looking at Elizabeth's folded hands resting on the top of the desk, reminded him of sitting in this exact spot, just a few months after washing out of the Air Force, talking to her about a job at Atlantis Air. Seven years later, everything was different, and somehow, he felt like everything was the same. Except that he had the seniority banked now, and he was going to use it.

"So, John, you're interested in changing your route?"

"Yeah," John said, setting his hat on his lap, "I was thinking I'd try to get something international. I'm ready for a change of scenery, I think."

"What about your crew?" Elizabeth asked, her brows furrowed a bit. "I thought you were quite the team."

John nodded, thinking about Teyla and Laura and Chuck and Carson, never worrying about what was going on in the cabin because he trusted them completely. He thought about Ronon on his right, for the last four years. They had been his team, his crew, and his only friends since he started at Atlantis. "We are. I was hoping that I could take any of them with me who wanted to come."

"I see," said Elizabeth, tapping her fingers against her keyboard, her bottom lip caught between her teeth in thought. "Okay, I have a route opening up in June. SFO to Narita, 36 hours off, then to Hong Kong and back to SFO. An A380-800, nothing like the 767 you're flying now, so you'd need to do some training to get up to speed on flying the thing - some of the pilots say it's like flying a cruiseship - but it's yours if you want it. With any of your crew who want to join you."

"I want it," John said, right away, before he had a chance to think. A new plane, some new crew, and never having to go back to Boston again if he didn't want to. It sounded perfect. "I'll talk with the crew, let you know what they think."

"Great," Elizabeth replied, reaching across the desk to shake John's hand. "Thanks for all of your service, John - I know you'll be great."

"Thanks," John said, putting his hat back on his head, and seeing his way out of the office.

* * *

John flew for the next three weeks, back and forth like clockwork, thirty-five hundred miles literally and figuratively flying by before he could even wrap his head around it most days. He went out with Ronon to a couple of bars in Boston one night after they arrived. Ronon flirted with women and bought them drinks, while John smiled just enough to be friendly, but not enough for any of the women to think that he was interested.

Rodney hadn't called, hadn't taken any of John's flights, hadn't been on the T or anywhere in Berkeley. John had stayed far away from the MIT campus on his runs. He was out of recorded Raiders games from last season (they'd finished 2-13, anyway), and he was on to the A's home opener. Teyla stopped by about halfway through the game, and refused the beer that John offered her, even though she was usually good for one after a flight.

"Are you well, John?" Teyla said during the seventh-inning stretch, stretching out her own legs in front of her, before tucking her feet back underneath her. She looked good - John had always thought that Teyla was beautiful, and her brown hair was pulled loosely off of her face and she was smiling, just a little - but today she was absolutely gorgeous.

"I'm fine," he said, taking a swig of his beer - his third, actually. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something." John hadn't had a chance to be alone with her, to talk to her about taking the SFO-Narita-Hong Kong route. He wanted her to be the first one to know. They'd worked together from the very beginning, before everyone else had come on board, and he trusted her and ultimately cared the most about what she decided to do.

When he was done, Teyla just sat there for a moment, peering at him with a look in her eyes that he couldn't pin down. She sighed and reached out to grasp his hand. "I want to," and John could see in her eyes what she was about to say, "but I cannot. I need to stay closer to Boston, for personal reasons. There is - someone, there, and - "

"It's okay," John said reassuringly, cutting her off and smiling, trying to tell her that it really was okay. He'd miss her like crazy, miss her having his back, every single time they went up, but if there was something (or someone) holding her back, then she should do it. John hadn't ever known what it was like to feel like anyone was more important than flying, than the team, no one who had ever made him think he would choose something different. "Don't be a stranger, okay?"

Teyla nodded, her eyes shining, just a little, with unshed tears, as she pulled John into a hug. "And don't run away from everything, John," she whispered into his ear. He didn't say anything - just let himself lean against her warm, sturdy body, let her take his weight for just a little while.

* * *

They were second in line for take off at SFO, and John could hear the weather reports in his ear as he maneuvered the plane around the bend, getting into position. It sounded like it was going to be a perfect day for flying across the country - just a spat of showers over Nebraska, which he would be high above anyway. Ronon was checking their instruments one last time, and John heard the control tower say, "Atlantis 1641, you're clear for take off."

John nodded to Ronon, and answered, "Atlantis 1641, ready for take off."

The take off was smooth, and John finally let out his breath as they climbed up in the sky. Ronon was smiling, sitting next to him, just like he always did on days like this, with take offs like this. John made the announcement that they'd hit ten thousand feet, and just kept climbing, climbing. He was going to miss this route - he'd miss flying over the Rockies and he'd miss the flat, endless squares of farmland in the Midwest and the way Boston Harbor spread out below him as he looped over the water and made his descent into Logan. He'd miss a lot of things.

"Ladies and gentleman," John said over the intercom, "we've reached out cruising altitude of thirty six thousand feet. I've got a pretty clear forecast from here to Boston, so I'm going to turn off the fasten seatbelt sign. Feel free to use the bathroom, get up and stretch your legs, and move about the cabin. Just remember to keep your seatbelts fastened when you are in your seat. Flight attendants will be coming by with lunch shortly. I hope you enjoy our flight, and I'll update you on the weather in Boston as we get closer."

"So," Ronon said as John cut off the connection. John turned to stare at him, because there were some days that, despite his pretty massive frame, John managed to almost forget that Ronon was even there, sitting beside him, since sometimes he went the full six plus hours without saying a word. And he almost never said anything without John saying something first. "Teyla tells me that you're getting a new route. International."

John made a mental note to yell at Teyla later, but he just sighed and said, "Yeah. I talked to Weir a few weeks ago. She said I could have an open SFO-Narita-Hong Kong route, and I said yes. Thought I might like a change of scenery, you know? Oh, and it's an A380-800."

Ronon grunted, and John had known Ronon long enough to know that that was the sound he made when he wasn't sure what to say. "Listen," John started, "Weir said I can take anyone with me who wants to come. Think you might want to? Fly the cruiseship with me?"

Ronon didn't say anything for a few minutes, almost long enough that John was convinced he wasn't going to at all, and then, as John turned the plane a bit north, Ronon said, "Sounds good, Sheppard. Sign me up."

About an hour later, the phone from the cabin rang. Sometimes, Laura called just to tell Ronon dirty jokes that made him laugh so hard that John thought everyone in the cabin must wonder what about flying a plane was so damn funny. Sometimes, Teyla just called to say hello to both of them, tell them everything was fine in the rest of the plane.

"Sheppard," John said, tucking the phone between his ear and his shoulder.

"John." It was Teyla's patient voice on the other end. "Could you come out and speak with a passenger? He is, well - a bit...difficult."

"Sure, be right there," John answered, hanging up. "Another pain-in-the-ass passenger Teyla wants me to talk to." Ronon nodded and smoothly took over as John got up, trying not to remember the last time he'd had to go back into the cabin during a flight. Part of him really wanted to forget that had ever happened.

John stopped in his tracks when he saw Teyla standing in the aisle in first-class, next to a seated Rodney, who was in his usual seat - aisle, second row, left. Rodney looked exhausted, a little rumpled, a lot like John felt although he was better about not showing it than Rodney was, and he smiled weakly at John. John threw a death glare at Teyla, who just smiled back at him. "This is the passenger I wanted you to speak with, Captain Sheppard."

"Sure it is," John shot back, putting one hand on his hip and switching his glare from Teyla to Rodney. Teyla sidled past him, and, as she passed, said softly, "Do not be so afraid, John."

"John, I'm sorry - I just needed to talk to you," Rodney said, looking desperate and miserable and urgent.

"And you thought hijacking me," the woman next to Rodney looked at John with wide eyes, and he winced and mouthed 'sorry' at her before continuing, "during my flight was the best way?"

Rodney dropped his head a bit. "I didn't know what else to do."

"Well, if that's all, I have an important job to do, what with the flying and all, so - " John waved at Rodney; god, he wanted to kiss him and punch him in the face all at once. He started to turn, to walk away, when he felt what Rodney's hand reach out and encircle his wrist, holding him there. John willed his body to remember what Rodney had done, remember how it had felt, and not to remember how good it had been, right before that.

"Let go, Rodney," John said, keeping his voice low and even enough not to alarm the rest of the passengers.

"No," Rodney said, defiantly, tugging John closer. "I broke up with her, that day. It was coming for a long time, and you were right that I should have done it sooner, before. I should have told you, before - I've regretted it every day since then, I have."

"I don't care. Let me go." John could feel his resolve crumbling, could see the remorse and the hurt in Rodney's eyes; he closed his own.

"John, I want you. You. Don't you get it?"

John shivered and started to pull away. Then, before he could register what was happening, Rodney was up on his feet and yanking John off-balance, enough that he stumbled into Rodney's chest and barely had time to recover before Rodney's mouth was on his.

John's first thought was _oh shit, I'm going to get fired for this one_, right before he thought _this is not what I want_ and _it's everything, everything_. He heard a bit of applause from a few rows back as he pulled away from the hot press of Rodney's lips, and he swore he heard a catcall that couldn't have come from anyone but Laura. John tore himself away, clearing his throat and looking sheepishly down at the slightly worn carpet of the floor, then watched Rodney as he brushed his hands down the front of his shirt to put himself back in order.

"I have to go," John said, looking right into Rodney's eyes.

"Okay," Rodney said, casting his eyes down, and Rodney had the wrong idea here. John didn't know why, didn't know if it was the best or worst idea he'd ever had, but he knew he wasn't going to let Rodney walk away again. He leaned forward, close to Rodney's ear, and said, "I'll see you later, okay?" At that Rodney's eyes lit up, smile playing with the corners of his mouth. He sat down and nodded, waving John back toward the cockpit like he had no idea what had made John leave in the first place.

When he sat back down in the pilot's seat, he glanced over at Ronon, who was grinning. John tried to glare at him too, and Ronon just held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Hey, whatever you want to do with the passengers is none of my business, Sheppard," he said, laughing.

"Shut up and fly, okay?" John replied, but there was no bite in it.

He spent the next four hours with the sun level to the windows, high above everything, and he always said he did his best thinking over thirty thousand feet in the air. John knew, no matter how angry he had been with Rodney, no matter how much Rodney fucked up, no matter how much he had wanted to never see him again, that Rodney was what he'd been missing all along. He'd always given everything up to fly, until flying had been taken from him, only to find it again. John had lost his family, his personal life, most of his friends, his whole entire _life_ in some ways, just for those moments, and it had never felt like it wasn't worth it until right then. John hadn't let himself want this way in so long he was sure he didn't recognize it fully until that moment, but now that he knew what it was, he didn't want to let anything go. And he wasn't sure he had to.

After the landing and an embarrassing walk off of the plane with _way_ too many middle-aged women smiling indulgently at him, John made his way out to the ground transportation area, the warm air off of the bay brushing against the bare skin of his arms where he'd rolled up his sleeves. And there, standing in the same place they'd met before, was Rodney, a small suitcase at his feet, his hands clasped behind his back, looking relieved and a bit scared.

"Hey," John said, approaching him. Rodney looked scared, tentative, waiting for John to push him away again. Instead, John curled his hand in the front of Rodney's shirt and kissed him hard on the mouth, feeling exhilarated and terrified and not alone, which he hadn't felt in longer than he could remember, before letting Rodney go. John fixed him with a stern look. "Don't ever do that to me again." Rodney nodded, color high on his cheeks, his mouth wet, and John softened despite himself. "Now come on, let's go." John grabbed Rodney's bag, and John caught Rodney's goofy grin before they made their way to where a cab was waiting. They got in, and John reached out to put his hand on Rodney's thigh, before digging his cell phone out of his bag and dialing Elizabeth's number.

* * *

**Epilogue:**

Fucking shitty flight. "Fuck," John hissed as they touched down at SFO. Ronon even looked a little shaken up, a little green around the gills from the _six fucking hours_ of heavy turbulence they'd just had. After trying to find a way out of it, he finally got enough info from control to figure out that there was no way out. A turbulent mess from twenty-five to forty thousand feet, almost the whole way across the country. They'd even had to suspend the last beverage service because Chuck _and_ Carson almost fell in the aisle. Days like this made John wish that he'd chosen a nice, boring job where he got to stay on the ground.

"Well, we made it, right?" John joked weakly, and Ronon just rolled his eyes and took a deep breath, shaking out his hands, which had spent most of the flight white-knuckled around the controls.

"Guess so," Ronon said skeptically, as they taxied toward the gate.

It was three-thirty in the afternoon, and John wanted nothing more than a hot shower, a beer, and his own bed, as soon as possible. He tried to block out all of the people pressed in near him in the airport corridors, tried to think of nothing but getting outside. He'd gotten the weather forecast in San Francisco partway through the flight, but the cool September air was still a bit of a shock as he pulled his suitcase through the automatic doors.

John buttoned his coat in front of him and crossed his arms, scanning the line of cars until he made out the convertible about five cars down, and the man leaning up against the side of the hood.

"Hey, how'd it go?" Rodney said, as John walked up. John groaned and shook his head. Rodney leaned forward to take John's bag, hauling it into the back seat. "That good, huh?"

"I don't want to talk about it." John moved in closer to Rodney, feeling his warmth across the distance between them. "Turbulence the whole goddamn way. I'm glad to be on the ground. How about the minions?"

Rodney wrapped his arms around John's waist, pulling him in and kissing him gently, a kiss that said _I missed you_ and a whole bunch of other things that John was just starting to figure out for himself, too. "Stupid as always. Now, come on." Rodney gently pushed John toward the passenger seat, despite John's half-hearted, exhausted gropes for the keys. He _loved_ this car, even though Rodney almost lost it when John picked him up at his office in Berkeley in it for the first time.

"It's getting too cold for this ridiculous car, you know," Rodney griped, without much bite behind it, and John smiled, looking over at Rodney's familiar face, one that John had spent the last two days in a Cambridge hotel room thinking about, and that he couldn't forget no matter how far he flew and how long he was gone. "And you're getting a little old for it too."

"Shut up," John said, watching Rodney break out into a smile before closing his eyes, the cool breeze against his face as Rodney navigated them toward the Bay Bridge, and toward home.

The End


End file.
